"Mom, you're never going to believe this"!

I stormed into the kitchen fuming. I'd had it. This was the last straw. I could handle criticisms and smart jokes about Catholics from another seventeen-year-old, but from one of my own teachers right in front of the whole class, never! "You're never going to believe what Mr. Ross said in sociology class today. He said Catholics really believe that the Eucharist is Christ's body."

      

       Startled, and not sure whether to take her enraged teenager seriously, my mother answered slowly:

       "Ann Marie, honey, we really do believe that."

     

      I was totally staggered. My Jewish sociology teacher knew more about Catholicism than I did.

 

SUNDAYS AT THE BERTOLAS

 

       "Ann Marie! Todd! We're late!"

I looked across the room I shared with my older brother. We were seven and eight years old at the time. He was sitting on the floor, shirtless and shoeless, running his Hot Wheels across the carpet. I wasn't in much better shape. Reluctantly I hopped off the top bunk and landed with a thud.

       "We can't keep God waiting!" Mom called down the hallway.

 

      I pulled on my socks and began rummaging through our common closet for a matching pair of sneakers.

       "Come on, Todd", I said in what I knew would be unheeded motivation a I tossed a pair his way. Mom said. Todd defiantly threw one of the racecars under the bed, picked up the shoes and began to dress. The weather outside was beautiful, as it usually was in Santa Catalina, the L.A. suburb where we lived. It would have been a great day to ride bikes or go to the playground. Going to Mass was not the way Todd and I would have chosen to spend our Sunday mornings.

 

      Nonetheless, we were all baptized, made our First Holy Communion and squirmed in Mass every Sunday. This was my experience and interest in religion up to my sophomore year of high school.

 

FAILED ATTEMPTS TO CONVERT A CATHOLIC

 

      My high school had the reputation for being the most ethnically diverse high school in Los Angeles County. Our unifying creed was tolerance and respect. No one culture or way of life was better than another; all religions and beliefs had some aspect of truth - this was the basic philosophy the school promoted and the students stuck to.

 

      So, I was Catholic. And my friends, for the most part, were Protestant. So what? All religions were basically the same, right? We all worshipped the same God, didn't we?

 

      All of a sudden, in tenth grade, it did make a difference. My friends, who up to that point had been as religiously sedentary as I, started to commit themselves more to their faith. Jesus Christ, and the churches they belonged to, began to take on a big role in their lives.

 

      Zealous to make a true Christian out of a poor, unfortunate Catholic like me, my friends gave me sermons encouraging me to really accept Jesus. Catholics, they told me, aren't true Christians. We aren't really saved. We are all headed for eternal condemnation. I was horrified - not because I was hell-bound, but because I couldn't believe my friends would dare break the decree of tolerance. Didn't they know that was the biggest don't in the book? Since when had I ever criticized their religion?

 

      Nonetheless, I swallowed a lot of their anti-Catholic arguments. I still remember a conversation I had with my best friend, a non-denominational Protestant, during our lunch break one day at school. As we carried our trays to the outdoor tables, she said:

       "We had the most awesome service last Sunday, Ann Marie."

       "Oh, really", I replied, looking around to find the rest of our friends. "What did you do?"

       It was on the beach, she said. The coolest part was that we had orange juice and doughnuts for communion.

      Scandalized, I set my tray down on the table and looked at her in puzzlement.

       "You did what? Can you really do that?"

Not surprised by my ignorance, she said authoritatively:

       "It's not what it is that's important, Ann Marie, it's what you put into it."

It sounded logical.

       Hmm, well, that makes sense, I thought to myself.

 

      Some of the other kids I associated with, however, weren't so friendly or diplomatic; in fact they were hostile and insulting about my faith. Even though I had very little doctrinal knowledge, their remarks infuriated me. They might be right, they might be wrong, but who did they think they were to make fun of my religion to my face?

 

      One particular episode vividly stays in my mind. Driving home one night with my friends, we passed by a Catholic church. On the lawn, white light illumined a crucifix. It was absolutely beautiful.

       "These dumb Catholics", snorted the driver. "They keep Christ on a cross. Don't they know he's risen?"

      

      I felt my jaw clamp shut. My face began to burn. But I had nothing to answer him with.

 

      The turning point came during my junior year. It was during Lent, on a Friday. Amanda, a friend, had invited me over to her house for a Mexican dinner her mom was making. I graciously declined with the excuse that it was Lent and I couldn't eat meat. The truth of the matter was that I didn't want to go at all. Her parents were fallen away Catholics, now Evangelicals, who always gave me a hard time about the faith when I was at their house.

       Don't worry, she told me, my mom can make you something different.

      

      It seemed rude to turn her down, so I ended up going. Things started getting uncomfortable the minute I sat down to eat my vegetarian nachos. Out on the back deck, Amandas parents fired off anti-Catholic accusations at me. What was I supposed to do? Apostatize? Tell them to get off my case? Burst into tears?

 

      I glued my eyes to the plate, and as soon as it was polite enough for me to leave, I thanked Amanda for inviting me and headed for the door. I didn't bother to tell her parents good-bye. Let them think I was a rude little Catholic girl it would just confirm their prejudices.

 

      As I drove out of the sub-division, I shook myself over and over. Why had I even gone? Who did those people think they were? Why did I not say anything? But what could I have said?

 

      I could still feel Mr. Luna's glare and hear the scornful tone in his voice. Catholics, he was convinced, worshipped Mary.

      

      "What could be farther away from the truth than that, Ann Marie?" Beside him, Mrs. Luna nodded her head in agreement. "Is there any place in the Bible where Jesus tells us to worship anyone but him? If you Catholics can find one, than let me and all the other Christians of the world know because we'd be really interested. I'd hate to think that we misunderstood him when he said you shall have no God besides me. But it seems pretty clear to me, Ann Marie. I dont know why the Catholic Church doesn't think so."

 

      Red light.

 

      Were these people serious? I thought to myself. Catholics worshipping Mary? Since when? I had been a Catholic for sixteen years and I didn't once remember having participated in a Mary-worship ceremony. If such ceremonies existed, then they certainly weren't advertised in the parish bulletin or announced after Mass.

 

      Green light.

 

      I eased out into the intersection, waiting for a chance to turn left.

       "Jesus", I prayed. "What are you trying to tell me? If the Catholic faith is right, then show me, because I don't know how much more of this I can take."

      

      By the time I had pulled into my driveway, I was decided. I would resolve this issue. I was going to study Catholicism, to learn everything I could about it and find out if it was true or not.

 

THE STORY OF FATIMA

 

      Reading was one of my least favorite activities. I did it only when absolutely necessary. However, a few days after the Mexican dinner episode, I went to the local Catholic bookstore to stock up on reading material. Not having any real idea of what I wanted, I made my selection based on thickness and cover design, paid the cashier and walked home.

 

      Every night after I'd done my homework, I'd lie on my bed and read. I was interested, very interested, but while these books provided some understanding, they still weren't the power punch I was looking for. The miracle I sought turned up in the place I least expected: the garage.

 

      Saturday afternoon I did what I always did - chores. This particular afternoon I was cleaning out the garage. All sweaty and grimy, I sorted through the boxes of camping gear and old dishes. As I shoved aside a pile of newspapers with my foot, a little blue book caught my eye. I wiped my forehead on my sleeve and picked it up. On the cover was a drawing of Our Lady. She was standing on a cloud. Three children knelt down before her, rosaries in hand. The Story of Fatima, read the cover. I sat down on the pile of newspapers and started to read. Then, the miracle happened. I didn't have a vision or an ecstasy, but I actually began to enjoy what I read, an experience which up to then was completely foreign to me. The little, illustrated pages flowed like water through my fingers. I read it from cover to cover, then went back and read it again. Something about it all - Our Lady, the innocent children made it like a homecoming. This was the religion I wanted, one of love and gentleness, not the rigid fire and brimstone, saved, unsaved, maybe saved God presented in the Protestant fellowships.

 

      I carried the book up to my room and set it on the dresser. I had the certainty of a prayer being answered. Maybe I didn't know everything yet, but I knew that what that book told me was true. Mary really did come down to earth, and she only appeared to Catholics. There was a proud satisfaction I relished in that thought.

 

      Take that, Mr. Luna.

 

      From then on I started to treasure all things - Catholic Mass, the rosary, statues, Catholic churches, votive candles. I prayed the rosary daily, and went to Mass as often as I could convince my parents to lend me the car. Anything new I learned fascinated me.

 

GOD PLANTS THE FIRST SEEDS OF MY VOCATION

 

      It amazes me to think that all of this happened during my sophomore year. Between September and May I had undergone a complete spiritual reconstruction. Now that the iron was hot, God decided to strike, and it was at Mass one Sunday that he laid the first blow.

 

      "Good morning everyone. I'm Sister Angela Donovan, the Vocational Director."

 

      What? A nun? A real one? Expecting the typical after Mass announcements, I was taken aback as I listened to this fifty-something woman tell the congregation about her experience as a missionary in Africa, about the decline in vocations, about the money needed to support retired priests and religious. I hung on her every word.

 

      My knowledge of religious life came from what I had read in the lives of the saints. I envisioned the consecrated life as a life of absolute holiness and perfection, reserved for an elite few. I never considered the possibility for myself because I knew I wasn't worthy; I wasn't special enough. But could I be a nun? From what Sr. Angela said it seemed like the Church was sending out an All Points Bulletin practically begging for vocations.

 

       The Church needs vocations, I thought. Of course I'll give my life for her. I had fallen so much in love with what it meant to be Catholic and I had seen how the Church was suffering. I was willing to do anything to help.

 

       "I'm going downtown on Thursday.  There's going to be a display or a conference or something about being a nun and I want to check it out."

 

       My friends eyes opened wide. She looked at me, stupefied, then turned her eyes back to the road.

 

        "Well, she said disdainfully, if that's what makes you happy."

 

      Surprised by her reaction, I concluded it was best to keep my mouth shut and keep the whole thing a secret.

 

      Yet the Vocation's Day left me with more questions than answers. I passed by the booths belonging to different religious orders, told the nuns that I was interested in knowing more and left my data with them. I got the impression, though, that no one I spoke with knew how to direct me. I didn't leave with anything solid and no one ever got back to me. After that, the idea of having a calling to consecrated life filed itself away under possibilities. I knew only that I wanted to give my life for the Church. Somehow.

 

      That was how I found myself studying theology.

 

MAJOR ADVANCEMENTS

      

       "What on earth are you going to do with a theology degree?" was a question I often met up with among family and friends. Um. I had no idea. But I'd tucked away some advice a priest had given me: "Whatever you major in, make sure its something you like, because you'll be spending your life in it." The only thing I wanted to dedicate my life to was the Church. How? I was still waiting to find out. God hadn't stuck a road sign on my path that said: "Ann Marie, this direction." I didnt even see his track marks. I was following his lead blindly, not realizing he already had a plan that, little by little, he was revealing.

 

      Everything else was working out. I'd found a Catholic college that was close to home. I'd met Matt, a real Catholic guy, who I started dating. It was all fitting in.  Maybe.

 

      God had other plans. The summer before I was going to enter university I went to a Catholic Charismatic conference in Los Angeles. My mom had met the Charismatic Movement some years prior and it had brought both her and my father closer to the Church. I wandered through the rows of displays and bookstands. Franciscan University of Steubenville. Nope, I wasn't interested and I wasn't in the mood for a sales pitch. I wandered by, pretending not to notice the stand or the young man behind it. But when I had made it to the end of the aisle and turned back, he was staring straight at me. I was foolish enough to make eye contact.

 

       Great, I thought, Now I have to talk to him. I tried to be polite as I listened to Jeff tell me about how great the student body was, the amazing faculty, how the Blessed Sacrament was reserved in seven different locations on campus. I was impressed but didn't let it show. I had other plans.

 

       "That's nice, but I'm already planning to study theology at another Catholic university. Thanks, though."

 

      Later on that night I received a phone call.

 

      "Hi, Ann Marie, you probably don't remember me and it probably seems surprising that I'm calling you, but I have to tell you something. It was a nun I had met at one of the stands at the conference. Jeff, from Steubenville, told me that you're planning to study theology. Maybe it's none of my business, but I feel it's my duty to tell you that over half the theology majors from that university end up becoming Protestants."

 

      Her words were like a punch in the stomach. I was stunned. I loved my faith too much to risk losing it or getting a cut-price version of it. But now what was I supposed to do? My thoughts went back to Jeff and everything he had told me about Franciscan University.

 

DISCERNING THE PLOT THICKENS

 

      Anything that could have been a problem - money, friends, family ended up in my favor, and I arrived at the university nervous and excited. College life at Steubenville far surpassed my highest expectations. It was everything I could have ever wanted. I was so used to fighting for my faith; now, immersed in all things Catholic, my faith flourished. And I began to reconsider the item I'd filed under possibilities: my vocation. Many students were discerning a vocation and the university even offered discernment activities: talks, retreats, and so on. I went to almost everything.

 

      I wanted a vocation, but I came to the conclusion that I must not have one. From what I'd heard, God was the one to give a vocation, the person called saw it, or felt it, or knew it and responded. I didn't see, feel or know anything, least of all, what a vocation was even supposed to look or feel like. And even if I ever were called, how was I supposed to know if it was real or just my imagination? For as much time as I dedicated to discerning, I could never get any fireworks to go off, any bang or boom that left me with the certainty beyond doubt of "Ann Marie, this is the God-given sign. You have a vocation."

 

STILL WAITING FOR A SIGN

 

       "Lord", I pleaded as I knelt alone in the chapel, "why aren't you calling me? I want a vocation so badly."

       

      It was early evening in the Bronx. Through the open windows in the chapel I could hear kids shouting to each other in the streets as the bass of a booming car stereo resonated off in the distance. Every so often on school breaks, my girlfriends and I would go to visit different religious orders. This particular weekend we had gone to visit the Sisters of Life in New York. Looking back, I can't believe we actually did this, but at the time it seemed so normal. The sisters were friendly, holy, and very hospitable, but the click, sparks, or sign I had so much hoped to feel was nowhere to be found. I was heartbroken.

 

       God, if the Church is suffering for lack of vocations and I'm here offering myself, why won't you take me?

      

      That Sunday night, I concluded God simply hadn't given me a vocation to consecrated life. I knew I didn't deserve one anyway, but it was still hard to swallow.

 

      All right. I would get married but not before I had spent some time as a missionary. With this idea in mind I went to a job fair during my last semester at college. I was hoping to find a good way to put my soon-to-be theology degree to good use for the Church. Among the many groups present at the job fair was the Regnum Christi Movement. One of my closest friends was a Regnum Christi member, so I decided to check out their stand. The woman representing the Movement was like none I had seen before. She was consecrated; she was friendly; she was obviously very in love with Christ and the Church. As she told me about Youth for the Third Millennium, a Regnum Christi apostolate, I burned with enthusiasm. YTM organized Catholic door-to-door missions, something I had wanted to put together for years. When I was living in L.A., at least every other week a Mormon or a Jehovahs Witness would come knocking at our door. 

 

       "When are Catholics ever going to do something like this?" I would ask myself. YTM missions were what I had been looking for and I couldn't wait to get involved.

 

      The consecrated woman invited me to go to a Holy Week retreat in Rhode Island to begin planning and learn more about the Regnum Christi Movement. Speaking about it with my roommate later I told her, "I'm not too sure if I want to go. After all, it's my last Easter here at Steubenville, I don't even know these people all that well, and, besides, I have absolutely no money." Her advice was profoundly simple, "Ann Marie, as long as God keeps opening doors in that direction, take it as a sign that he wants you to go through them."

      

      God couldn't have opened the doors any wider. A group of girls from the university were going, so I wouldn't be there among strangers and a van from Michigan was going to pick us up on the way to Rhode Island - that solved the money problem.

 

      As soon as I walked in the front door, surrounded by the flurry of welcome and a pile of suitcases, I felt right at home. Everything about the place: the people, the atmosphere, the chapel, the talks - they all seemed to fit. But I told myself, "Dont get your hopes up, Ann Marie. You know you don't have a vocation."

      

       But when I learned about the coworker program, a chance to give a year or two of full-time service to the Church through the Regnum Christi Movement, I knew that that was the missionary work I was looking for. I would be back in the summer to start.

      

AM I MISTAKEN, OR WAS THAT A CALL?

 

      May came and my YTM friends and I were in the final stages of planning our first mission. The Saturday before the big day we had a retreat for all the missionaries. The priest, Fr. Anthony Bannon, LC, based his meditations on the Gospel of John, chapter one, the call of the first apostles.

 

      As I sat listening to the meditation he gave, I heard Christ's invitation to the apostles in my own heart: "Come and see."

 

       "Lord, what are you getting at?" I asked, "I thought it was already decided."

 

       Then, during Mass, the Gospel reading was taken also from John, chapter fifteen. "I am the vine, you are the branches as the Father has loved me, so I have loved you remain in my love."

 

      Was this an invitation?

 

      I saw something that I'd never seen before. Christ was offering me a choice married life or a life consecrated totally to him.

 

       "Both are good, Ann Marie", I felt him say, "and you can choose whichever one you like, but I want you to know that what I'm offering to you in consecrated life is something I don't offer to everyone."

 

      I had once heard someone say, "The moment God asks something of you is the same moment he gives you the grace to do what he's asking. I saw the sign, I saw him asking and I embraced it."

 

        "I'm going to the candidacy", I told the consecrated after the retreat. I had expected her to jump up and down and get excited. Instead she told me, "All right, Ann Marie, let's take things as they come. Just be open to God's will."

 

      "I'm going to the candidacy", I told my parents. I wasn't sure how they would react. It would surprise them, I thought. "Oh yes, Ann Marie, we were expecting something like this."

 

      Expecting it? How? Asking them to borrow the car to go downtown for the Vocations Day five years before was the first and last time I had ever mentioned the word vocation in their presence.

 

LEARNING TO WALK IN FAITH

 

      Defensive is the adjective that described me during the first week of candidacy. Nobody was going to force anything on me. This vocation was between God and me, and no third party would get in the way.

 

      I opened up as I discovered that every element of the candidacy was geared towards finding God's will. But why, after seven whole days did I still not see clearly if God really wanted me?

 

       "I've never asked you for a sign before, Christ."

      

       I walked down the long driveway leading up to the formation center. I had gone outside to pray my rosary because the landscape was so beautiful - wildflowers, trees, the Atlantic Ocean visible in the distance, but I began to think of my family, my life, my friends. Why was I here and they weren't? Why had God preserved me? Why had he given me so much? Why did it seem that I was special to him?

      

      I needed to know. I couldn't be kept in suspense any longer. The struggle had to end; I wanted to see plainly what God wanted for my life.

 

       "I've never asked you for a sign before, Christ, but if you want me to be consecrated, turn my rosary to gold." It had happened to other people, people I knew. If it would just happen to me. "Just make my rosary turn to gold, that's the only sign I'll ever ask for." "Ann Marie", I heard Jesus voice in my soul. "I could make your rosary turn into a bird if I wanted to, but what more signs do you need that I haven't already given you?"

 

      Was he serious?

 

      "Wait a minute, Jesus. You really mean this? This is for real?"

 

      "Yes."

 

      This was for real.  This was more real than any sign.

 

      "I think God is calling me", I told my spiritual guide. "But how can I be 100% sure?" Her answer took me for a loop. "You're never going to be 100% sure. God never gives 100% certainties."

 

       "What do you mean"? I asked.

 

       "Think about it, Ann Marie. If you knew for sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that God wanted you consecrated, what would you do"?

 

       "Get consecrated, of course."

 

       "Right, but you'd do it because you knew that you had to, that there wasnt a choice. God's will would be so clear that to go against it would be blatantly wrong." I looked at her, puzzled, so she continued: "In other words, you'd feel obliged, not free. Freedom is a condition for love. God wants us to choose him because we love him, freely, not because we think we've got no other choice. That's why he always leaves a little space of uncertainty, so we can fill in that gap with love."

 

       "Oh", I said. I nodded. I understood.

 

       "Make a leap of faith. You choose him, and once you've done that, you'll see how he confirms that decision."

 

      The five weeks of candidacy that followed were like summer camp to me. I was in heaven and happier than I had ever been in my entire life. September 1st, the day of my consecration, couldn't come soon enough.

 

      But the weeks leading up to that day weren't all smiles and sunshine. I had told Christ yes and wasn't about to turn back, but leaving behind my life, my family, and my own expectations became a painful reality I would have to learn to accept.

 

       "Can I really do this"? I asked myself. How can I hurt the people I love so much? My mom's done so much for me all my life and this will be so hard for her.

 

      When I flew back to L.A. to say goodbye to my family, I still had a six hundred-dollar debt from college. How could I pay it? I was a week away from making a promise of poverty. I had never asked my parents for a substantial amount of money before and they had never given me money that I hadn't earned doing extra chores around the house.

 

       "Don't worry, Ann Marie", they reassured me. We'll take care of it. I was grateful, but I still felt bad about it - it wasn't like they had that kind of money just lying around. Still, what else could I do?

 

       Later on that evening I went to visit my old parish priest. He had known me since I was a child and was elated about my decision.

 

       "Come with me; I have something for you," he said, leading me to his office. "We have a parish fund for vocations and you've finally given us a chance to use it. Take this." He handed me a check for five hundred dollars.

 

       "Father, I can't accept this, I protested in disbelief."

 

       "You can and you will", he answered firmly and smiled.

 

      I also went to visit my grandma before heading back to Rhode Island. As I kissed her goodbye she stuffed some money into my hand like she had done on other occasions. I wasn't about to look at it with her standing right there, but when I got in the car, I discovered I was holding a one hundred dollar bill. Six hundred dollars, just what I needed.

 

THE POT OF GOLD

      

        "I promise to live in poverty, chastity, and obedience."

     

       At last. At last. On September 1, 1996, after so many years of interior unrest, as I pronounced my promises of consecration, peace filled my soul. My heart heard with a certain, yet unexplainable security, "This is what God wants, Ann Marie. This is his will." My eyes remained fixed on the small crucifix I held in my hand.

 

       "I'm consecrated", I thought. "I am totally yours."

 

      God's path is easy to trace in hindsight, and he makes it easy to follow in the present if we look at life with faith. He has his plan, his ways, his will for bringing us to find him. Regardless of the path he plotted out for me, and the circumstances he permitted me to go through, today, having discovered my vocation, the only thing I can say to him is thank you, and the only thing I can do for him is promise to live every moment corresponding to the unmerited love he has shown me.